


Help For Hopeless Holmeses

by LadyGlinda



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Boys In Love, Conspiracy, Fluff and Humor, Help, John is embarrassed, Lots of Sighs, M/M, Matchmaking, No explicit smut, Not Actually Unrequited Love, Sibling Incest, The women are very amused, dumb geniuses, holmescest
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-28
Updated: 2018-08-28
Packaged: 2019-07-03 17:02:50
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,727
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15823191
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LadyGlinda/pseuds/LadyGlinda
Summary: Every time the Holmes brothers meet, they clash. Spreading frustration. Some people have enough.





	Help For Hopeless Holmeses

**Author's Note:**

> A completely silly little feelgood-drabble.

## 1

Anthea sighed. Counted the seconds until the door to her office was ripped open and long legs stomped through it on a pair of expensive shoes. She had basically heard these steps since the owner of said legs had entered the Cabinet Office.

“I will not be disturbed for an hour! Leastwise!” was declared in a voice higher than usual.

The next poor door was cruelly opened up.

“Sir, the Prime Minister…”

“The Prime Minister can…!”

The sentence remained unfinished and the message was yet clear as day. The door was slammed, an umbrella was brutally dumped and a briefcase was smashed onto a desk. Then a body dropped into a creaking chair and, even though she couldn’t see it, she knew elbows were prepped up on a desk and a balding head was hid in big, elegant hands.

Even if she hadn't known her boss's schedule so well she would have known he had just met his little brother.

Anthea sighed again.

*****

“Mrs Hudson! I've told you three times to bring tea and biscuits now! Have you become deaf all at once?!” The deep voice echoed through the small stairway of 221b Baker Street.

A rather annoyed landlady opened the door of her flat and made two steps towards the stairs. “Sherlock! I've told you dozens of times that I'm not your housekeeper! And I will not have this tone!”

“Or what?! You gesture with a stupid umbrella and stamp with your foot?! Oh no, wait, only my bloody brother does that!”

Martha Hudson sighed. As if she hadn't known Mycroft Holmes had paid his brother a visit. She had heard them arguing through several closed doors. Probably the people on the other side of the street had heard them too. On the other hand - they were certainly used to it by now.

“I want my tea! And I want my bloody…”

“Go into your flat! I will bring you your godforsaken tea and three dozen biscuits to shut you up!” she yelled back and winced when a door was slammed so hard that all walls in her poor house vibrated.

Martha Hudson sighed.

*****

“Hi, Sherlock, did you…” John Watson stopped when he saw the thunderclouds on Sherlock's face. “Oh. Let me guess – your brother was here?” He threw his jacket over his chair.

“How did you know?!” Sherlock flared.

“Oh, nothing. Another hole in the wall. Not from a bullet but from a fist as far as I can see. Your blood pressure's in the stratosphere, just judging from your face. Haven't even bothered getting dressed, your dressing gown…”

“Stop deducing me! It's a disgrace!”

“You've always said I see but I don't observe!”

“I wasn't talking about _me_ , Watson!”

“Oh, I see. You're the exception of every rule then?” As if he didn't know Sherlock was.

“I swear if you don't shut up at once…!”

John held up his hands. “Don't bite me, mate. Are there any biscuits left?” He glanced over three crumpled packages.

Sherlock shrugged. “A crump or two maybe.”

John nodded. It had been worse than usual. He poured himself a cup of tea. It was cold but he didn’t care.

“How can he always come and prance around and tell me what to do! 'Eat something, you look like a beanpole!'. 'Call Mummy!'. 'Behave!'. How dare he!”

John sighed, not bothering answering a completely rhetorical question.

They'd been right. As usual. Something had to be done.

He got up. “I'm going down to Mrs Hudson.”

He could still hear Sherlock ranting when he had already left the flat, wondering how two geniuses could be so damn stupid when it came to one another…

## 2

Mycroft was sitting at the edge of the backseat, being close to shaking the driver and yelling at him to drive faster.

An emergency in Baker Street, Anthea had said. He had tried to call Sherlock but there hadn't been an answer. Neither was on Doctor Watson's phone. It was five o'clock and he had just come out of a meeting with the foreign secretary.

Anthea had shoved his coat and his umbrella into his hands and then more or less shoved him out of the office to go to his brother, saying she didn’t know any details.

What had he done now? Set fire on the flat? Killed someone? Taken drugs again…? Just got insane?

Oh, he was driving _Mycroft_ insane. All his life and increasingly hard. His baby brother. Smart, brilliant, difficult, oh so difficult. And good-hearted, adorable and devastatingly handsome. And so sexy…

Mycroft sighed. What kind of a man found his own little brother sexy? And desirable? And so annoying he could strangle him? And kiss him dizzy? And… All at the same time? And what the hell was wrong with his coffin nail of a brother now?

He bent forward. “Drive faster, James!”

He was afraid of what was waiting for him in this horrible little flat his brother insisted on living in.

*****

“What a bloody crap is this?!” Sherlock asked for the fourth time. “It's ridiculous to demand this from me!”

John nodded, ignoring the glare that was directed at him. “He's eccentric, I was told. He wants to speak only with you and only if you wear this kind of clothing.” He gave this explanation for the fourth time now. It sounded a tad thin and memorised. Which it of course was.

He finished the knot. “Tie is fine.”

Sherlock almost ripped it off again. “It's too tight! I can't breathe!”

“It's totally fine, Sherlock.”

“And why this?!” The detective gestured at the table, covered with Mrs Hudson's best white tablecloth and set up with wine glasses and plates with soft bread and cheese and grapes.

The doctor shrugged. “He pays for it. Wants a nice atmosphere for discussing his case with you. And only with you. I'm not good enough for him obviously.”

“Him…! Who is it for God's sake?!”

“You'll find out very soon. I was told to let you know to be calm. Polite. Nice, if you can pull that off…” John had huge doubts that he would… He'd better leave now or this was the last evening of his life… Could very well be anyway…

He grabbed his jacket. “Well then, I'm off. Text me when you are finished and I can come back.” _At all…_

Sherlock grumbled something and fumbled with his tie again. He looked very good in this dark blue suit, the hair neatly combed, wearing shiny black shoes. Very handsome. His dashing looks would be appreciated by his soon-to-arrive visitor for sure.

John just hoped they wouldn’t kill each other…

*****

“He's arrived.” Anthea took a sip from her tea when the front door was opened with a key that was being rammed in impatiently.

John had not had any idea that Mycroft even owned one and wondered how this could have been a surprise for him. He didn't wonder at all that Anthea had managed to arrive ten minutes before her boss. Anthea managed everything.

“Let the games begin.” Mrs Hudson took a ginger nut. The sound of steps hurrying up the stairs was unmistakable.

John gulped. “Yeah, and let's hope I won't sleep on the street the next night…” And all the following ones, too… It was so hard to find an affordable flat in London these days. “When he finds out I messed with his phone…” It was a miracle that Sherlock hadn't noticed at once but he had been so upset about having to dress like this…

Mrs Hudson patted John's hand. “Don't worry, my dear. We know what we're doing.”

“I really hope so.” Mycroft had tried to call him three times before John had switched of his phone in terror. Even the ringtone had sounded scared and upset. The British Government would have his guts for garters…

Anthea gave him a smile. “I know my boss. It will work out.”

“And _we_ know Sherlock.”

John nodded darkly. “Yeah. Exactly…” He looked over to Anthea. “Do you have a spare room, just in case?”

The smile got deeper. “No.”

“Fine.”

## 3

Sherlock hurried to the door when he heard the steps. How could this mysterious client have a bloody key to his house?! Then he stopped dead. _No…_

He ripped the door open and shouted, almost into his brother's face, “I'll kill you, John!” The quiet but unmistakable and utterly satisfying noise of a cup getting broken by dropping into its saucer reached his ear, and he nodded grimly.

“Sherlock, what's wrong? What did John do to you?”

Sherlock sighed. Then he turned to his brother. Took in his deranged state. He had sat on the edge of the seat on his way here. He was worried to bits. And he was the 'client' Sherlock was waiting for and had dressed up for like Mummy's best boy.

“Slowly and painfully!” he shouted downstairs and he heard a female giggling. Not from Mrs Hudson. Anthea! This was a conspiracy!

“Brother, please, let's go inside and then you'll tell me what's wrong.”

Sherlock sighed again. “You can as well leave again. It's fine.” He turned around and walked back into his flat.

Mycroft followed him. “Why are you dressed like this? Like for a… date?”

Sherlock tilted his head. This had been a strange tone. He faced his brother again. “Why do you care?”

Mycroft blushed. “I do not. But if you meet somebody new, I'll have to check them over to make sure they are no national risk.”

“You can as well say 'him', Mycroft. Don't you know I'm gay? Not that I was meeting anyone the way you mean it.”

“But what about this nasty Adler woman then?”

Sherlock snorted. “Fuck Irene! I didn't!” he hastily added.

They had reached the living room now. Mycroft took in the table. “So you did expect someone!”

Sherlock sighed. “Yes. John told me I had a client who insisted on me dressing up like this and offer him some goodies. You're paying for them by the way…”

“But…” Mycroft paled.

Sherlock nodded. “Yep. Conspiracy. They are all downstairs. Your Anthea and my dear friends John and Mrs Hudson.” Who were about to suffer a dreadful death.

“But they can't know…” Mycroft shut his mouth abruptly.

“Know what?”

“Nothing. I should go now; I still have plenty to do.” He gulped when Sherlock pressed him down on the visitor's chair.

“Know what?” Sherlock insisted, watching his brother's cheeks blush harder and harder, as Sherlock's heart was beating faster and faster.

Had John and the others really figured out something he, the world's only consulting detective and officially second cleverest man in England, had missed? Not mentioning the cleverest man, whose eyes were moving wildly as he searched for a way out?

“Do you love me, Mycroft?” he breathed. _Do you love me, too?_

“Love you… Are you out of your mind?!” Mycroft's voice was shrill.

Sherlock let him go and feel his own cheeks blush now. He stepped back. “Sorry. You're free to go, brother.”

Mycroft stood up – very slowly. Sherlock could feel him staring at him. He didn’t have the courage to meet his big brother's gaze and stared down on the carpet instead. Which needed a thorough cleaning, as he vaguely realised.

“Love you…” Mycroft repeated again, quieter this time, and Sherlock felt like dying.

How often had he wished it was true. That his brother wouldn’t just come over to tell him to help him on a case or to do better. That he not only told him he cared when Sherlock had messed something up and needed someone to save his arse. That he would come to tell him he…

“How could I _not_ love you?” Mycroft quietly asked.

Very slowly Sherlock raised his head. “You… do?” But then his shoulders slumped down again. Of course he meant in a brotherly way…

“You look so wonderful in this suit. But you always look wonderful.” Mycroft's voice was soft and gentle.

Sherlock met his look again. “Yes?”

“Oh yes.” Mycroft sat down again as if he couldn’t bear standing anymore. “Can't even name the moment when I realised that what I felt for you was… different to what it should be. I was terrified. I was the Antichrist for you and I wanted to…”

“You never were! I always admired you and then I saw you in this tuxedo at Cousin Carussa's wedding and…”

“That was twelve years ago!”

“Yes! I know! How could I have told you! I thought you looked down on me, your loose cannon of a drug-head brother…”

“Oh.”

Sherlock sobbed when he was finally, finally embraced by his brother's long arms, and he hid his face against Mycroft's warm neck, smelling of his classic eau de cologne and tweed and clean skin.

“My dear, lovely boy,” Mycroft mumbled against his forehead.

Sherlock nodded and then through his tear-soaked lashes he saw something that made his knees go even weaker than they already were. Over his brother's tight collar, there was a single black hair, sneaking out of his shirt. When he had last seen his brother topless, he had been a boy and there had only been smooth skin. And now…

The next second he was fumbling with his brother's tie.

“Sherlock… We can't do that now! All those people downstairs!”

“You mean the people who played matchmaker for us?”

“But…”

And then Sherlock shut him up with a kiss and the world stopped turning when he was melting into warmth and sweetness.

*****

Mrs Hudson giggled and John fought the urge to cover his ears.

“Not wasting any time, my boss,” Anthea stated proudly.

The noise of a chair crashing down in the upstairs flat let John cringe. But not more than the loud and high moans in two usually deep voices.

“I wonder who tops!”

“Mrs Hudson!”

Anthea shook her head. “I doubt they've got any lubrication. You should have provided them with some, Doctor Watson!”

“And how the hell should I have explained that?!”

“I guess they're just using their hands for now. They both have such long fingers; they can easily wrap them around two…”

“Don't say it!” John flared. How was he ever supposed to set a foot into his flat again! Knowing the Holmes brothers had romped in the bloody living room! They hadn't even made it into Sherlock's bedroom! What if one of them came all over his innocent chair!

He saw the two women share naughty smiles. He sighed. He needed a drink! “Do you have sherry, Mrs Hudson?” he pleaded.

“No, sorry, my dear, I drank the last bit yesterday.”

John nodded. Then he got up. “I'll buy a bottle then.” He needed to escape this symphony up there. He didn’t _mind_ what happened just… He didn’t need to _listen_ to it…

He left the flat and hurried to the hallway. And when he opened the door, someone just raised his hand to ring the doorbell.

“Greg!” he said, paling.

“Oh, hi John! Is there anything wrong with your phones?!”

“Oh, yes.” He blocked the door so Lestrade couldn’t enter the house. “Why don't you just tell me how we can help you and later…” An exceptionally loud _'Oh God, Mycroft!’_ echoed through the house and his shoulders slumped down.

Lestrade's huge brown eyes stared at him. And then a wide grin spread on his handsome features. “Holy…! Have they finally gotten it!”

“What…?! You don't mind?”

The inspector snorted. “Every idiot could see it. These Holmes boys. Totally meant for each other. You reckon, how long will they need to…”

“I don't know!” Sherlock had sounded like coming, hadn't he, but now the moans set back in, louder than ever.

“Guess I'll ask Mrs Hudson if she's got some tea for me then and wait.”

“Do that, yeah. I'm about to buy some sherry.”

Lestrade patted his back. “Need it, boy, huh? Well, guess you'd better get used to this noise then. And when they're finished, I have a nice case for Sherlock. Really his lucky day!” With this he stepped into the house and John walked off into the sunny September day, whistling.

Yes. A lucky day indeed for Sherlock Holmes and his big brother, the mighty British Government. Sometimes even geniuses needed a bit of help from their friends.

The End


End file.
